


Broken and Bared

by Crowley (Tay_Cipher7)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, Hermione and Ron critical (slightly), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, no beta we die like voldemort, slight introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tay_Cipher7/pseuds/Crowley
Summary: They were broken people, but it wasn’t a bad thing. They had each other. They understood each other. Whatever could heal, they would heal together.or,War changes people. It breaks them, but sometimes, broken people are better together rather than apart.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77





	Broken and Bared

**Author's Note:**

> I was just minding my own business and then this happened.

  
  


* * *

They were both broken people. They were utterly shattered, wrecked, _broken_ people—people torn apart by the world around them and then told to be fine as if it never happened. The haunted shadows of their pasts and the relentless jackhammer of their trauma left them fractured so utterly that some days there was too little of them to function.

But they were broken together.

Others wouldn’t get it. 

They wouldn't understand. Hermione certainly didn’t, even after everything she’d done and been through. It’s not that she wasn’t hurting or haunted, but it wasn’t the same. Not even close.

Ron and his family didn’t understand either. They were hurt irreparably after the death of one of their own. But it still wasn’t the same.

When they saw Harry, they expected better. They expected more—for him to _be_ more. But they couldn’t understand that it was impossible. So many pieces of him were lost to time that gathering them up again was nothing more than a pipe dream.

But Severus understood. He understood so completely that when Harry could do nothing more than lose himself in the lines of the stone wall, he would bring him small snacking items, a warm cup of tea, and just sit with him. He would card his hands through Harry’s hair until Harry could come back to what was left of himself to turn and smile and nibble on the treats.

And as such, Harry understood Severus too. Understood him like the tether between them blurred and the point that defined he and Severus as separate people became increasingly unclear.

When Severus could only bring himself to binge potions for 72 hours straight—by then Harry had coaxed him out and through a shower and into warm clothes by the blazing, crackling fireplace—Harry understood. Potions were safety, they were control. There was iron-clad knowledge there and Severus never had to worry about _not knowing_ or _not being good enough_. Harry was still finding his control. When the binges drew too long, when Severus’s hair became too heavy with the grease of potion fumes and his hands had grown discoloured from handling ingredients, Harry would sit on the stool next to the table, watching the cauldron boil and Severus stir and listening to the near-quiet sounds of their breathing until Severus registered he was there, and leaned over to press a chapped kiss to his temple.

Only then, after the potion was finished, the station cleaned meticulously, and everything was put back in its place, did Severus allow Harry to take his hand and walk them out.

Harry knew Severus needed it, just as Severus knew Harry needed to disassociate and let his mind wander so that it didn’t cling to the _what if_ ’s and the screams of everyone he felt obligated to save but could not. Just as Harry needed pile books ceiling-high into their room until there was hardly any space left for them, starving for more knowledge. Just as Harry needed to cook for them instead of letting the House Elves do it—the only exception being when Harry couldn’t bring himself to move from the bed, from the couch, from the tub—because, like potions, Harry _knew_ how to do that. He knew food like the back of his hand; he could cook with his eyes closed and it would still be perfect.

Severus’ warm fingers rubbed small circles into his hand every time Harry pulled him away. It was a silent ‘thank you’ because sometimes, sometimes the words just wouldn’t come. Words weren’t needed. Most times, words were so unnecessary that neither of them appreciated them. They learned to communicate without words, it was nicer that way. Words were dangerous; they were abrasive, too. 

Severus would bracket Harry from behind when Harry would drag his hands forward and into the warm water to gently scrub off the stains. Severus’ nails would stay coloured for several days but the majority came off under good soap and Harry’s careful attentions. 

Severus would rest his head against Harry’s neck and breathe him in—just as Harry had to do when he came out of his own moments, back into the world.

When Harry woke up sobbing, thrashing with the after-effects of a nightmare, suffocating guilt closing up his throat, Severus would lean near—not touching, his warm breath barely brushing against the freezing heat of Harry’s skin—and he would whisper low and reverberating and slow. Harry’s breath would match the tempo until the ringing in his hears could clear and the hot-wire of his nerves would become a low buzz on the wrong side of over-sensitive. Then, where Harry had focused on the low tempo like a lighthouse to a man lost at sea, he would focus on the words themselves. _You’re at Hogwarts. You’re with me. You’re safe. Your friends are alive. The war is over. It’s not your fault. You’re safe. You’re here with me. Breathe. You’re okay._

Harry would swallow thick as his frantic lungs calmed behind his ribs, and the buzz would become an itch for comfort, for touch. Harry would lean heavy into the _solid, warm, familiar, safe,_ body beside him. Severus would hold a hand to the nape of his neck, pressing in as he smoothed it down the length of Harry’s back, soothing the shuddering tension and the tight muscle. His other hand would cup Harry’s chin and massage gently over his features, soothing the harsh lines than had formed until Harry could go lax as the pressure dissipated. Harry would let a tremoring hand circle Snape’s wrist in a light grip so he could press his thumb to the pulse point and twitch his fingers in gratitude.

Severus would pull Harry closer, pressing his lips to Harry’s head as he dragged them back down and under the warm covers. Harry would let himself be cocooned, tucked within Severus’ strong arms and away from the prying, incessant eyes of the world.

Harry would also be there too, he always would, when Severus spasmed out of a memory-turned-night terror, choking on air and desperate to breathe, hands coming up to his neck and clawing red lines down the pale skin as if it could help drag air back into his lungs. Harry would grab his hands tight, intertwining their fingers for more leverage. He would straddle Severus’ hips and hold him firm with his thighs, waiting for the moment Severus’ eyes snapped up to his so that Harry could push the images of _Releasing the pressure from his throat so that he could breathe easy—Air flowing steady and coming freely—Calm—No threats—Safety—_ into his vulnerable mind.

And then Severus would gasp like a dying man, his hands would tighten almost unbearably against Harry’s as tears of stress and relief overtook him. It would take a while—they’d breathe together for several long moments. Severus would sit up and pull Harry flush against him until their chests rose and fell in tandem. And Severus would press a shaking kiss to Harry’s neck once his breathing evened out. Harry’s hands, free since Severus rose, would stroke the strands of his hair, nails gently scraping over his scalp and rubbing circles into the juncture of Severus’ neck.

They’d lay down again, curled on their sides with Severus’ head against Harry’s front. Harry would wind his arms and legs around Severus and hold the man firm against him. Severus’ hands would splay large against Harry’s back as they drift, soaking up the comfort until they’re too full of it— _they’d never be too full of it_.

They were broken people. Utterly shattered, wretched and torn by the world around them. But they were broken together, and sometimes their broken pieces slotted together so perfectly that they healed ever so slightly.

They were broken people, but it wasn’t a bad thing. They had each other. They _understood_ each other. 

Whatever could heal, they would heal together.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Well, thanks for reading,,
> 
> I love comments and kudos, folks, feel free to give me too many >:)


End file.
